Wearing and Tearing
by AlbionRemains
Summary: Well, I don't even know what to say about this except I have no excuse for whatever's wrong with me... Anywho, Dean is changing into something they hunt, Sam is worried about him, John is a terrible father, and for God's sake, does Bobby have to do everything around here? I'm going to dock myself some points for the simple fact that the timeline makes no sense. Vampire!Dean.
1. Chapter 1

*** _Sam_ ***

"Dad, I just… His shoulder hasn't been right for over a month. He hasn't slept in two days. How hard are you going to push him?"

He'd gone longer without sleep, it's true, but the shoulder injury would make him vulnerable, and Sam wasn't exactly thrilled with the idea of sending his wounded brother in to play bait.

 _If Bobby were here, he'd back me up…_

"Are you volunteering to tell their families that Dean couldn't pitch in because his 'shoulder hurt and he needed a nap?' Or are you gonna do as I say for once?"

John was stuffing his clothing into a canvas duffel on the motel bed while the subject of their discussion was out grabbing take out from the chinese joint they'd passed on the way into town.

They'd been tracking the nest for days.

Sam wanted, begged, to play decoy. He'd tried reasoning with his father, but it was like talking to a brick wall. John insisted Dean play bait because Sam's stitches from the last job might tear if he had to run quickly in a clinch moment: A black dog had gouged a nasty furrow in the meat of Sam's thigh, and while it was close to healed, it wasn't to a point yet where he could safely sprint from harm's way.

The problem was, while Sam trusted Dean explicitly to save his hide, their father wasn't interested in the logical approach. Sam would sit behind, and watch his family go to war with a bunch of fangs because he was ten miles of useless these days.

He scuffed the edge of the table with his boot and scowled. Bullshit, is what this was. Dean needed him and he knew it. The shoulder had been bothering him for almost four weeks, ever since it'd gotten pulled out of joint by a shifter in Tomah. No amount of explaining would deter his father's insistence on using Dean for bait, though. Not for lack of trying.

There was a familiar mechanical growl outside, a car door opened and shut, then silence, then footsteps and a turned key ratcheting in the handle. Dean kicked the door shut behind him and put the chinese boxes on the table, tossing a pair of chopsticks to Sam.

He seemed to notice the tension in the room, and he stopped, looking between his brother and his father with a sigh of resignation.

"What now? You two couldn't decide which knives to gut each other with while I was gone?"

John shot his son a look, then slowly sat at the table.

"Dean, your shoulder still hurting?" he asked.

Sam watched as his brother lied smoothly, hiding a wince no one but Sam would notice as he demonstrated a full rotation of the joint. It cracked.

"Nah, it's loud, but it doesn't hurt so much anymore. I'm good."

"Glad to hear it," John said, addressing Dean but staring straight at Sam, "because I'm gonna need you to help me with the job tomorrow. Think you can do that?"

Dean nodded, lo mein dangling from mouth to the box.

Chewing, he said, "I'm ready, no problem."

"Good. Just before sun-up, we'll head out. Bobby's gonna meet us there. Now you both finish up here and clean your guns, got it? Then get some rest."

"Yes sir."

Prickling with irritation at his older brother's routine response to their father's commands, Sam felt that exhausting mix of exasperation and fear that was now so familiar to his family's line of work. He wondered, like always, if this would be the last job he'd see his brother and father alive. Later, he'd realize he'd been half right.

Dean was still bait, but at least Sam got to go with as long as he promised to stay in the car. It was when he was dragged _out_ of the impala that he started to realize how horribly wrong the hunt had gone.

Through blurry eyes, he watched as his father dashed helplessly behind him, arm outstretched, yelling his name… and then Dean's. _Dean… were both of them ambushed?_ Sam craned his neck, trying to see around him before a black hood was thrown over his head and a sharp crack to his skull with the butt-end of a knife rendered him unconscious.

*** _Dean_ ***

Sam is trapped in a cage and I'm strapped to a table. They've been feeding on me for the past two hours, and to be honest, I wish they'd just finish the job, except then Sam would be next, and I can't let that happen.

They want me to turn.

Luther was Kate's sire and apparently they're pretty pissed at me for killing the bastard. From what dad's told me, most vampires typically turn hunters to make them pay for killing one of their own. I know Sam was hoping that I wouldn't be the bait for the case, but Sammy... God, it's like for all those brains of his, he still doesn't understand how these things think. Maybe that's a good thing...

I _had_ to play bait. There was no other way around it. Dad's opinions aside, I was the one who ganked Luther. It would make sense that I'd be the natural target for their next attack. I had thought, and I guess this was my _own_ shortsightedness, that this would mean my little brother would be safe. Now, in the bare chill of the room and surrounded by the undead, I'm kicking myself for believing I'd have that kind of luck. No Winchester ever gets out of a scrape without a little bloodshed, it seems. Let's hope mine is the only blood being shed.

They got the drop on me after Sam was caught, and now one of Kate's little bitches is fixed on my throat like a goddamn leech and I feel my extremities slowly freezing. The cold creeps up my arms, my legs, and waves of pain radiate from the tips of my fingers to my shuddering heart. I realize I'm about to die... A surreptitious glance tells me Sammy is already looking for a way to pick the lock on the cage. Buy time, I remind myself. You don't have to survive. You just have to distract them until your dad or Bobby finds you. They're the recon, you're the bait, so you better make it good...

Kate leans over me, starts to speak in a soft hiss.

Her breath reeks of iron and rot, and I nearly gag. They've been plying me with threats and promises of power if I'd let them turn me for over an hour, now. Jesus, can't a person die in peace around here? Doesn't seem so, since Kate's voice is a breeze in the shell of my ear:

" _If you don't drink, we will kill him, slowly, before we finally bring him across._

 _If you do drink, we might consider letting him go...Your choice."_

Bartering, now? This was new... This was possible leverage. I suck in a breath and watch the vamp behind Sam's cage give me a knowing nod, and he gestures subtly to his left hand.

He's holding a meat hook.

There's a sudden release of pressure at my throat and the bitch smiles, wiping her mouth in satisfaction. My whole body aches. Tired as I am, I hope they aren't bluffing this time. Even if they were, I'm not certain how much longer I can hold out. Bait or not, the blood loss is making me dizzy. Kate's brow furrows with impatience, and she motions to the vamp by the cage.

"He's refusing. Start on the brother."

"Stop!" My voice is weaker than I thought it would be... I hear it breaking as I pant for a reprieve. "Stop, not yet..."

"Change your mind, gorgeous?" She raises a brow and holds a waiting hand out to her thug sidekick by the cage. He stalls his hand, and Sam is shaking in the opposite corner, unable to hide, defenseless.

"Okay," I whisper.

"What was that?"

I clear my throat and groan. "Just.. do it. But leave him alone. You agree not to hurt him, I'll turn."

"Dean, no! What are you saying?" My brother's panic filters into my brain but the bloodloss warps it, and I push the fear away. I'm tired. Ready, in fact. If I gotta die somehow, let it be by saving him. Doing my real job: Protecting Sam.

"Deal's a deal," I reminder her, "Don't hurt him, let him go..."

Kate shakes her head, tsk's a few times. "Not quite, Dean. No honor among thieves, and all that. You first."

I shake my head. "No dice, let me see him walk outta here unharmed, and then do what you want to me."

A harsh bark of laughter. "You really think you're in a position to be making deals right now? Try to get off the table, Dean. Just try. You're short a few pints and you're wounded. There's no way you're breaking those ties. So I guess you'll have to trust that we're giving you fair play, hmm? It's either that, or Sammy boy over there gets a few new piercings to go with that hipster hairdo."

"Hey," I snarl, mustering as much threat as possible, "Nobody insults my kid brother's hair but me, and you sure as hell can't call him Sammy."

"The clock's still running, Winchester," she says, far too calm for my liking. I can feel my heart pounding, possibly for the last few times... "What'll it be? You gonna come to the dark side and save your 'kid brother', or are you gonna trade his life for yours?"

I stare at Sam, and beg silently for him to forgive me.

"Do it," I say.

I can't hear Sam's scream over the dawning darkness as my remaining blood is nearly drained. I'm almost grateful for it.

When Kate's bleeding wrist is shoved against my mouth, I shut my eyes. _I'm sorry, Sammy._

It doesn't taste as bad as I thought it would. At first it's cold, thick, revolting- but after a moment, something changes and it becomes… sweet. My stomach clenches and for a moment I think I'm gonna hurl, until I realize- It isn't nausea, it's hunger.

I gag, choking on the blood, but by now I've swallowed enough for the change to take root and Kate laughs.

"You're an idiot, Dean. Just so we're clear? We never wanted one of you to join us. You killed Luther; it's only fair to kill one of you. Except, true to our word, we won't be the ones to do it. That's where you come in." Voices, filtering in and out. I hear, _take him to the cage,_ and I begin to thrash.

 _Wait- Wait-_

My heart stutters, stops, and my lungs collapse. I'm screaming without making a sound.

I have a moment of life left. Just long enough to realize what they've done. What I might do.

They drag me to the cage. They toss me in. Sam is in shock and I can't breathe… I can't breathe…

 _No- NO- This wasn't supposed to happen- Sammy, God, Sammy, get away from me- Kill me-_

 _KILL ME-_

He looks at me, shaking his head. He backs away, but his eyes…

"Dean?"

 _God, Sammy, I'm so sorry…_

*** _Sam_ ***

My brother is dead. For now.

The room keeps weaving back and forth until I realize it's me, rocking, like a scared kid.

I shudder, and sit straight.

He thrashed, clawed at his skin, screamed- I don't know if he even knew he was doing it.

I hope he was gone by then, I can't imagine what the change would be like.

He's been still for hours now.

I'm starting to feel something I've never felt before.

Terror.

Sheer terror at being caged with him, knowing I might not be able to kill him before he kills me.

Not because of his reflexes. Not because he'll wake up starving.

Not even because I know he can now outrun, overpower and feed on me.

Not even because he could turn me.

I'm afraid I won't be able to kill him because killing Dean means killing the only person in the world who really gives a shit about me.

My own brother.

I can't kill my own brother.

They tossed a knife in with us, and I'm clutching it so tightly I can't feel my fingers anymore.

Dean groans.

I flinch.

***DEAN***

My body is on fire.

My brain is scrambled.

Aside from this… silence. No breath. No pulse. The quiet jars me to full consciousness.

I open my eyes.

Sam is collapsed shivering against the wall, holding that knife but looking way too freaked out to use it.

I try to speak and the stillness of my chest reminds me that I need to breathe to talk to Sam. I inhale, unnaturally sucking air into otherwise useless lungs.

"Sammy?" My voice is rough. Sore. I've been screaming.

He flinches back when I move to sit up.

I realize I'm cold. Then, with a sliver of fear, I notice something else: I'm beginning to feel hungry.

"Sammy, listen to me. It's… It's okay. You can do it."

I want him to. God, I want him to. Before this gets any worse.

Sam shakes his head. "I can't, Dean. I won't do it."

"Sam, _please_."

Sam straightens a bit and seems to collect himself. I begin to relax. Good boy. Sam's no dummy, and I always knew I could trust him to do the right thing.

Except he doesn't.

"I'm not going to kill you."

Sam starts to re-examine the cage structure, clearly looking for any weaknesses they may have missed the first few days of captivity.

No, this is not part of the plan. Come on, Sammy, don't wuss out on me now. Not now.

"Sam, we're not fucking playing around. You saw what happened. You know what I'm turning into, now _do it_."

"No."

"Sam—"

There's a scream from the hall. Shots fired. It's a good sign, for Sam at least. If the cavalry is coming in, then he'll be safe. But as it stands, I'm rapidly turning into the most dangerous thing in the room.

"Sam, you have to! Sam—"

He runs to the bars and calls out for Bobby. My urgency is tempered by the knowledge that Sam is safe.

He's safe. Bobby will come in guns-a-blazing like always and Sam will go free. Only one loose end.

" _ **Sam—"**_

Bobby runs in with the keys, but not before a bit of shrapnel leaves a shallow, bloody trough in Sam's shoulder.

My vision blurs and I try not to inhale, but can't help it. God, it smells like… I can't describe…A bolt of pain barrels through me and knocks the forgotten breath out of my lungs. My stomach cramps with need.

 _Ohgodohgodohgod-_

I sink to all fours. Fuck- _fuck-_ Get him out now- get Sam _out-_

I lock my teeth together and groan.

* * *

Bobby runs to the cage, pace slowing as only one of the men inside is standing- The other is shuddering on the ground, doubled over. Something is wrong with Dean.

Sam is shouting, but the words are indistinct and Bobby realizes one of the boys he'd loved as a father would love his own sons, is crippled with pain.

Bobby takes the stolen keys from his pocket and unlocks the cage door.

He is shocked when Sam dashes out and slams the bars closed behind him, panting with exertion.

His brother is still locked in the cage.

Dean cries out and twists on the floor, cradling his midsection, sweat lacquered on his shoulders.

Sam watches with caution, pity. Even grief.

Something is very, very wrong.

"Sam, what happened?"

Sam doesn't look at Bobby. He doesn't take his eyes from his brother.

Dean is shaking, groaning through clenched teeth.

"Dean…" Sam takes a deep breath, "They turned him…"

Bobby drops his gun to the floor with a clatter, curses under his breath and runs a hand through his hair before putting his baseball cap back in place.

"Your call, son," he says quietly. "What do we do?"

Sam doesn't have a chance to answer before Dean's eyes open to murderous slits.

"You f-fucking kill me! You fucking behead me and kill me. Do it."

Bobby's shock would be comical if the situation weren't so dire.

"It's still him," he gasps.

Sam is shaking his head slowly, unable to think in the moment.

Dean roars in pain.

" _Give me the knife! Give me the damn knife, I'll do it myself!"_

"Dean—"

But Dean has broken into pained sobs, tremors wracking his body.

"Please, please just do it- It hurts, Bobby, please…"

Instead, Bobby looks thoughtful for a moment. He takes Sam's knife and walks over to the other cage, plunging it into the corpse. He draws it out slow, dead man's blood painting the blade with a brackish ruddy hue.

Sam watches him, understands, and opens the cage door. Bobby walks inside to where Dean is rambling insensibly, arms tensely folded against his aching stomach.

"Don't let me live like this, you can't let me live like this…. Please…" Before Dean can struggle away, Bobby slides the blood-slicked knife between his ribs.

Dean cries out, hand clutching at the knife as his eyes roll back, and the elder Winchester goes slack in Bobby's arms.

Sam grabs his feet.

Together, they carry him to the truck waiting outside.


	2. Chapter 2

John Winchester is watching his eldest son sleep.

There have been countless times over the years that he has done this, but Dean's chest has never been so still. His skin has never been so pale. His eyes have never been so dark.

His son is dead.

He hadn't believed them at first, until Sam needed his help bringing Dean into the house. Bobby was getting the med kit. John gathered his son into his arms and carried him to the couch where he laid him out.

He was cold to the touch.

Dean.

There was a part of him that still wanted to kill him. Beyond the fact that Dean was now a vampire, John knew this was a risk involved in hunting. Many hunters, even a few friends of his, had been bitten or poisoned by the things they hunted. And until now, he'd put bullets in the ones he'd been unlucky enough to encounter.

This was his _son._

His son, shivering on the couch. Dean. His soldier. His pride.

There would be no putting an end to it- he couldn't do it. Yet, he couldn't silence the voice that told him _monster_ either _._

Sam sat down beside him. His leg and ribs had been bandaged, the gash on his shoulder sewn shut.

Bobby stood in the doorway.

John got up and walked out.

Dean groaned, finally opening his eyes.

Sam couldn't suppress a shudder when he saw the reddish cast around his irises.

"Why didn't you kill me?"

His voice was a soft accusation.

Bobby shrugged.

"You ain't killed anybody yet, have you?"

Dean swallowed.

"Are you going to wait around until I do?"

Sam sighed, and got up. He crossed his arms and stared down at his older brother.

"You're asking us to kill you. It's obvious you're still my brother. Lenore was able to live off animal blood. Why can't you?"

Dean snorted.

"So I'm just a domesticated monster, that makes everything fine? How about the fact that I'm _dead_ , Sam? How about the fact that I could kill someone if I'm not careful?"

"Dean, a damned human could kill someone if they aren't careful. You won't," Bobby stated.

"Then how about the fact I don't want to fucking live like this?"

Sam shook his head.

"You're my brother, Dean. You're still my brother."

Dean winced, sucked in a breath through his teeth. He placed a hand on his stomach.

"Get out," he said.

Bobby watched him carefully.

"We're not going anywhere, Dean. Not until we find a way to deal with this. You can't kill yourself and we sure as hell ain't gonna do it. Not unless we have to."

Dean glared at him- it lacked energy, but was unnerving enough due to his altered eyes alone.

Bobby shared a look with Sam.

"You're hungry," Sam said quietly.

Dean swallowed hard. He slowly pushed himself into a sitting position, swinging his legs off the couch. He was still bent over, shivering, but he took a deep breath.

"Sam," he asked quietly, "Have you told Dad?"

Sam nodded.

Dean shut his eyes and sighed.

"Dean," Bobby ventured, "you need to eat something."

He gave a weak, wry laugh that almost ended on a sob.

"Guess you should've thought about that before letting me out of that cage, huh?"

His chuckle turned into a hiss and he folded his arms across his stomach.

"Goddamn, that hurts," he rasped.

It was then that the front door opened, and John came in. He tossed a black garbage bag on the floor, and Sam couldn't help but notice it was moving.

"Bobby, Sam… Get out," John commanded.

Dean was coughed wetly into the crook of his elbow, eyes narrowed against the dim light of the lamps.

Sam cast one look back as he exited the room. Dean was shaking.

There was a flurry of motion as John shut the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Five days had passed since Dean had turned. John and Bobby had tracked down the last of Kate's clan and wiped them out. Sam had stayed behind with Dean, although he wished he had left with the others. What he wouldn't have given to see what his father had done to those bastards.

Dean had been getting progressively paler and short-tempered in the days since he last ate. His hands had a fine tremor to them that never seemed to go away, and he began to fix his eyes on the floor, as if he were scared of what he'd see if he tried to look at anyone else. His cough returned. It was obvious that he needed to eat again, that he had probably been starving for days, but nobody, (least of all him), was willing to acknowledge what that might mean.

They were waiting for John and Bobby to return, flipping through static-ridden TV channels, when Sam finally spoke.

"What is it like?"

Dean fidgeted with a frayed patch on the cushion beside him.

"What, being dead?"

"Being a vampire."

Dean cleared his throat and looked back at the television.

"These channels suck. We should talk to Bobby about getting some cable, or at least some movies from the last 10 years. Preferably not VHS…"

"Dean…"

Dean got up and walked into the kitchen.

Sam sighed. He didn't want to press, but Dean hadn't talked about anything since he died. How could he possibly cope with something like this? And unless he talked about it, Sam knew his brother would only continue getting worse until he eventually self-destructed. You could pretty much set your watch by his downward spiral.

When he got to the kitchen, Dean was microwaving a cold mug of coffee.

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

Dean grabbed the mug from the microwave as it beeped. He took a tentative sip. He winced.

"Why are you drinking coffee? We both know that won't help."

"Shut up, Sam." Dean's voice was tight, with a warning edge to it. He took a long, desperate pull from the coffee, felt it burn away to nothing the moment it slid down his throat.

"Dean—"

"Sam, _Shut. Up._ " His hands were clutched around the coffee as he took another drink.

"Stop pretending things are normal, okay?! You have to eat. You look like shit."

The mug shattered against the floor.

"What, you think I don't realize that? _Let me tell you something, Sam._ Ever since this happened to me I've tried to accept the fact that you're too fucking _selfish_ to let me die. You want a freak for a brother? Fine by me. Maybe I'm drinking a fucking cup of coffee because I'm trying my damnedest to act _human_ for you people, so you won't catch on to just how fucking _difficult_ it is to be trapped in a house surrounded by food when you're fucking _starving to death._ "

Sam backed against the counter, slowly reaching behind him for a knife, but to his surprise, Dean stopped his advance, briefly closed his eyes and took a deep, halting breath as he knelt and began to mop up the coffee with a dishtowel.

Dean's hands were shaking again.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to freak out on you. I'm not m-myself."

Sam sighed, grabbed a towel, and knelt to scrub the floor.

"No kidding. It's been five days, Dean. Nearly a week. I'm worried about you."

Dean's chuckle was hoarse.

"You should be more worried about the fact that I—"

Sam sucked in a breath as his hand brushed a piece of the broken mug.

Blood welled up, and spilled into his palm.

He heard Dean's throat contract, and watched his brother very slowly back against the counter.

"S-Sam…?"

His eyes were locked onto Sam's fingers.

Sam felt himself pale. A bitterness seeped into his mouth as the adrenaline kicked in.

Inhale. Exhale.

"Dean, I'm going to wash off my hand," he said carefully, "Hold on…"

He slowly got to his feet, trying hard not to feel Dean's eyes on him as he moved to the sink.

He turned on the faucet. Dean coughed. Sam flinched at the sudden sound, and a drop of blood flecked the floor near his feet.

Dean felt suddenly weak as he gripped the counter, clenched his eyes shut, felt his insides pull into a painful knot.

"Sammy, get rid of it- _please get rid of it_ -"

Sam washed his hand quickly, watching as the blood ribboned in the sink.

Dean groaned as his stomach audibly growled.

"Son of a bitch…"

Sam turned off the faucet and watched his brother. Dean's breathing had gone ragged; he slumped to the floor.

"There- There, it's gone. Mostly gone. Dean? …Dean?"

His brother's trembling shoulders told him all he needed to know.

Dean never admitted to being in pain. Even after some of the worst hunts, the ones where broken bones, stitches or concussions had been just another part of the job, Sam rarely heard more than an agitated complaint. But this was different. Dean had tried to hide his injuries before, but being changed into a monster… Dean wasn't trying to hide anything. He was trying to deny reality altogether. He didn't eat, still faked breathing and drinking coffee, still tried to be human. Not for his father and not for Sam, but because he couldn't face what was happening to him. And it was killing him.

"Dean, you have to eat. Please."

Sam held out his hand, a scattering of fat red beads welling fresh on his fingers.

Dean batted it away with a hiss.

"I'm not fucking eating you, dumbass- Get that away from me!"

Sam huffed.

"Why not? I trust you."

"Stop, Sammy- I'm not kidding!"

Dean was crouched with his hands in his hair, head tucked between his knees, shivering.

"God, Dean, look at you! Why does this have to be so difficult?"

Dean coughed hard, black flecks staining the back of his hand. He lifted his gaze to stare vaguely ahead, unwilling to answer.

Sam watched his brother shiver on the floor. To his shame, he felt tears welling in his eyes. He rubbed them away furiously.

"So you'd rather starve than deal with the fact that you're a vampire now, is that it?"

Dean flinched at the use of the word, glared at Sam with venom.

"It's not up to you. 'My body, my rules,' right Sammy?" His chuckle was hollow.

"Fine. Starve."

Sam turned heel and left the kitchen.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam knew he shouldn't have lost his temper, but he couldn't bring himself to look at Dean in his condition, angry as he was with his denial. How could you do that to yourself? All he needed to do to fix the problem and keep everyone safe was just EAT something, dammit.

When John and Bobby returned thirty minutes later, the door to the kitchen was still shut.

John looked at his youngest son, saw the broken skin on his palm.

"Sam, where's Dean?"

* * *

It was a drop. A single drop.

Dean stared at it even after Sam left.

It was Sam's blood.

His brother's blood.

It was on a floor that probably hadn't been cleaned since the Depression.

And God, _God_ how he wanted to lap it up.

His teeth ached with the intensity of his craving.

What could it hurt?

One drop wasn't even enough to really _taste_ it- It couldn't be enough to get him hooked.

But it smelled like home and warmth and something savory, he could only imagine what something with that scent could taste like.

His stomach clenched again, and Dean bit his lip to keep from screaming.

God, he was _so hungry._

His lip finally split open, and he moaned when the blood flooded his mouth.

The cramp eased. His eyes cleared.

It felt like the first, explosive breath taken after being trapped under water, the sweet release moments after orgasm or the brightness of the sun after days indoors-

And then it stopped, his stomach rebelled at the dead blood and cramped harder.

Dean spat on the floor, retching as the pain mounted.

He struggled, refusing to consider the speck of dried vitae that was only a few feet away, but slowly he disentangled himself…

 _It's only a drop- no one will know- and it hurts, god, it_ _ **hurts**_ …

The door opened, and John stood looking down at his son. He shut it behind him.

"Dean."

 _Shit-Shit-Dad, I'm sorry… I'm sorry…_

Dean froze, shame flashing through him under the insistent press of his hunger.

John looked at his son, pale and shuddering on the floor, wracked with pain.

"Son, look at me."

Dean swallowed hard and tried to speak.

"Dad, please—" he choked on his words as another cramp seized him.

"Dean, look at me."

Dean twisted, crying out when his stomach tightened.

John knelt down and grabbed him by the shoulders, pushing him into a sitting position.

" _Stop! Stop- it hurts-"_

"DEAN."

Dean grabbed his father's shoulders with trembling hands, overcome. John smoothed the sweat-drenched hair from his son's forehead; put his hands on either side of his face.

"Look at me, Dean."

Dean couldn't meet his eyes. He swallowed hard, still shaking with need.

"I'm s-sorry... I'm s-so sorry… this is my fault, I shouldn't have gotten caught. I'm so sorry…"

"Easy, Dean. I know."

He coughed and sagged against his father's chest, shuddering.

"S-Sam, I couldn't…"

John shook his head.

"Sam is fine. You didn't hurt him. You need to calm down, Dean. Slow your breathing."

"S-So hungry, I can't… make it stop… I can't take it anymore, _please_ …"

John assessed his son, realizing the full seriousness of the situation. Things had gone very bad very, very quickly. Dean's pallor had gone white, and his skin was clammy. His eyes were tinged red, and he couldn't focus. He needed to feed, soon, before he lost it.

"I want you to listen to me, Dean. I'm going to cut my arm and I want you to feed from me until I tell you to stop. Can you do that for me?"

Dean tried to scramble away, horrified, but John had a good hold on his shoulders.

"Dean, you need to eat. It won't take much, just enough to give you some control back."

He still struggled against John's grip, but faster than he could stop him, his father grabbed a knife from the counter.

"I won't—"

John drew the blade across his forearm in a swift motion. Dean reared back, but his father slid behind him and pressed the wound against his lips.

Dean moaned, and his eyes rolled back.

John watched as the pain slowly eased from his son's body, replaced by intense relief. Dean moaned again, this time gripping his arm harder. John flinched when he felt his son's teeth sink into his flesh.

He waited.

Dean's body was shaking, breath ragged with desperation.

When he started to notice his vision going a bit hazy, he put his other hand on his son's shoulder.

"That's enough."

He didn't stop.

"Dean, that's _enough._ "

Dean moaned pleadingly, but John dug his fingers into his shoulder.

It didn't work.

John put his other arm around Dean's neck and wrenched him off.

"God damn it, that's _ENOUGH."_

Dean lay there, trembling with horror, before carefully tucking his knees to his chest, not daring to look his father in the eye.

John got to his feet and stood over his son. Then, with his right hand, he struck him across the face, sending Dean crashing into the far cupboard where he curled into a ball, shaking.

"You stop when I say stop, Dean. Do you understand me?"

His father's voice was calm, but firm.

…

 _Flashes of Dean's childhood flickered through his brain. His father taking him on his first hunt and the beating he'd gotten when he froze up in a clinch moment, the time he'd saved Sam from a kelpie only to discover he'd trapped himself in the process. John had watched the kelpie take Dean under the water for a good few minutes before diving in after him._

 _There were rules. There were consequences._ Be a good soldier, Dean. Follow my order.

 _Once, after Sam had left for college, John had taken Dean to a nest of chimeras. They were dangerous, even for him. Dean had been full of bravado, ready to charge in on a second's notice. His father called after him, told him to stop, but he didn't listen. One of the chimeras had raked his arm pretty bad for his eagerness. John had finished the rest of them off and taken his son by the back of the neck, threw him to the ground._

" _Goddammit, Dean, you_ stop _when I tell you to stop!"_

…

" _Dean? Do you understand?"_

Dean forced himself to respond, and painfully got to his feet. He kept his eyes on the ground.

"Yes, sir."

"Good."

John turned to the sink and washed his arm off, carefully cleaning the wound. He'd have to suture it shut. The edges were ragged where Dean's teeth had torn from the muscle, already bleeding through the linen dishtowel his twisted over the bite.

Dean felt his insides freeze. He'd hurt his father. He might not have meant to, but the bite wasn't closing. He could smell the blood from where he stood. A shiver ran down his back. John hadn't used that voice with him for a long, long time, and even then, only when he'd screwed up in the worst ways he could recall.

He guiltily swallowed back the remaining blood in his mouth, trying to use his tongue to rub it off his teeth. The taste lingered.

John twisted the faucet off and turned to look at his son, arms crossed against his chest as he leaned back on the sink. His eyes assessed his eldest boy.

"You okay, son?"

It wasn't so much a question as it was a demand. Show no weakness. Be a man.

"Yes sir," he rasped, ignoring the tension in his stomach that whispered, _not nearly enough. More_. He bit the inside of his cheek and used the pain to focus.

He did not look his father in the eyes.

"Bobby and I, we found a poltergeist a few miles north of Brant Lake. Should be ready to clear it out by Wednesday. You prepared to come out with us, or do we need to keep you on lockdown?"

Dean shook his head. "No, no, I'm ready. I can hunt."

John sized up his eldest son for a long moment before finally clearing his throat.

He nodded, and left the kitchen without saying a word.

Dean released a hard, shaky breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.


	5. Chapter 5

Sunlight couldn't kill Dean, but the full brightness of day was hell on his skin, and even worse on his eyes. Sam had to guide him to the impala, his arm locked with his brother's, while Dean tried to shield his face.

John, as was usually the case, forcefully ignored these proceedings and slipped into the driver's seat without a backward glance. Sam sat up front, and Dean was hunched in the back seat, trying to fold himself in such a way that would keep most of his skin hidden from the burning light.

Sam glanced in the rear-view mirror, fascinated by the silver-pale translucent skin and bluish lips of his dead brother. For all intents and purposes, Dean really did look like a corpse. If it weren't for the occasional cough or rustle when the sun laid directly on his skin for too long, Sam might have been concerned that he'd died all over again, for good.

Brant Lake was relatively close. Bobby met them outside the house, having already spoken with the frightened couple. They'd left over an hour ago.

John got out and opened the trunk, passing salt-loaded shotguns to each of his boys. The cloud cover gave Dean a small reprieve and the relief was visible on his face.

"You boys know how this goes. I want you to keep level heads in there- I hear this thing is pretty violent. No fucking around, you got me?"

"Yes, sir."

Dean rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck. It felt good to be back in control of a situation, doing what he knew best. It was almost enough to forget.

Until he realized his father was bringing a machete, and the truth was driven home. While Sam and Bobby were discussing the game plan, John caught Dean's hand.

"It's just in case, Dean. I'm sorry, but I have to."

"I know. It's alright, I get it."

Dean cocked his gun and headed to the door.


	6. Chapter 6

It was silent as a tomb inside.

There was a smell of ozone, like pavement after a hard rain: A scent that Dean remembered catching only momentarily when he was alive, but now it was overwhelming. Something "Other" was here.

Dean headed straight for the kitchen and grabbed the salt from the cabinet. First things first.

Sam, Bobby and his father had gone upstairs. The youngest boy in the family was the unlucky magnet for this thing, so it seemed natural that the poltergeist would have set up shop in the kids' room. They all knew Sam was a likely target, but he'd insisted on coming along. There was an anti-possession talisman they found for him to wear, but whether it was authentic was still in question.

No sooner had Dean grabbed the salt, he heard panicked voices upstairs, a series of rhythm-less thumps and bangs and a set of calm footsteps slowly walking, alone, to the stairs. This did not bode well.

Sam, moving far too gracefully for his sasquatch limbs, slowly descended the stairs and came to face Dean there in the living room where he had already poured a handful of salt. One look at his brother's face told him everything he needed to know: Sam's not home right now. So much for the talisman, then.

His brother looked at him, confused. "A vampire?"

 _Jesus, I hate that word._ Dean sighed. "You know how this goes. Get out of my brother before I make you."

Sam arched a brow. "Your brother is the hunter? How is it they haven't killed you yet?"

"I'm just lucky, I guess. Now get the fuck out." Dean started the Latin and Sam clocked him square in the jaw. Dean had seen it coming, thank God, but it still hurt like crazy.

Dean grabbed Sam's fist on the follow-through and pulled it behind his brother, spinning him into a hold, hissing the Latin as fast as he could. With his free hand, he started winding the cord for the talisman tighter around his brother's neck. Not enough to kill, but hopefully enough to cut off his air.

Then, Sam elbowed Dean in the stomach.

He might as well have shot him for how badly it hurt. Stars winked in his vision and he dropped the hold on his brother to wrap his arms around the pain. Apparently hitting a vampire in the stomach was a weak spot their father's journal had missed. As his vision cleared and Dean was able to at least inhale without feeling like his guts were being knotted up, he realized he'd fallen to one knee. His brother wasn't in his line of sight, which meant-

Dean dodged left, just in time.

A fire poker embedded in the floor next to where his hand had been. Dean couldn't remember where he'd left off in the Latin, figured he might as well start over, and he did.

Then, Sam pulled out a syringe of Dead Man's Blood. Dean kept his head down, kept the Latin chant going as he tried to formulate a plan of attack.

Sam twirled the syringe in his fingers. "Guess there are some trust issues with the family, huh, brother? Seems the vampire thing isn't going so well. How long do you think it will be before they put you out of your misery?"

Dean ignored the taunt, continued the chant. Almost there.

Sam lunged for Dean, full on. Dean whirled a handful of salt in his brother's face and Sam reared back, eyes streaming as the salt burned pocks into his cheek.

"You'll pay for that, you leech," he hissed, and grabbed Dean by the throat, halting the Latin as Dean struggled to speak. After wrenching Dean's shoulder enough to dislocate it from the socket, temporarily disabling Dean's left side, Sam pulled out the syringe and yanked off the cap with his teeth. He stabbed his brother straight in the carotid. The Dead Man's Blood was emptied into Dean's throat.

As Dean's eyes rolled back and the agony washed in like a watercolor wave, he heard his father sneaking up behind Sam with a fistful of salt, and Dean thought _Thank God_ , relief pouring in...

…Just in time to feel the fire poker, dislodged from the floor, plunge ruthlessly from behind out through his belly, smeared with the mottled gray-brown-red of his insides, Sammy's own hands twisting it through his torso like the key of a wind-up doll.

"Sam! Put him down!" John's voice, deep and angry, barking over the encroaching blackness in Dean's field of vision. A hiss of burnt flesh as the fistful of salt ate like acid through Sam's cheek. Dean was dropped to his knees, hands tugging shakily at the fire poker, every motion flooding his senses in a nauseating roll of pain.

"Like the dog he is, right Dad? You'd love to put him down, wouldn't you? Him and me both. What a failure you are, letting both kids turn into what you've hunted. Sammy with the demon blood, and now Dean… your brave little soldier, getting a little long in the tooth these days, hmm?" Sam chuckled, yanked on Dean's hair to pull his head back, his mouth opened in a gasp of pain, and Dean realized what he was doing- his teeth were sharp, the fangs were out against his will, the pain overriding his control. His eyes must be reddened, too. His father's look of pity, of disgust, was unmistakable.

Dean fixed his gaze on the far wall, took a breath, and whispered the final words of the exorcism.

When Bobby finally came downstairs, the tension could be cut with a knife. Dean was exhausted, Sam was only just coming to, and John was picking the remaining salt out of Sam's cheek with tweezers. He was almost defiantly ignoring his eldest son. Bobby had only a moment to wonder why Dean was on all fours before he realized what he was looking at- the brass handle of the fire poker was jutting out of Dean's back like slot machine lever, and Dean's ability to remain conscious was rapidly timing out.

"Jesus, Dean! Hold still, son. I got it. Count of three. One…"

Even prepared for it, the pain of the poker slipping out the way it came nearly put Dean out. A startled cry, then a desperate gasp for breath. Blood and other things, slowly wetting his shirt and hands like a tidal rush- and his stomach, empty and aching, the ache building as the blood spilled.

"Bandage, Bobby- I have to stop bleeding…" His hands shaking, Dean taped gauze over his stomach, trying to stem the flow. "Oh, God." The insistent press of hunger pushed- pushed- Dean groaned.

"Let me get your back, son, it's pretty bad."

Bobby's hands, far more gentle than his own father's ever were, placed the square of gauze over the wound and then wrapped the bandage around Dean's torso, keeping things in place.

Bobby stopped to look at Dean, take in his other injuries. The younger man was dazed, breathing uneven, eyes unable to focus. "Hey, you okay? Dean, you alright?"

"I'm fine. It's okay. Damn thing caught me off guard with that fireplace poker." Dean seemed to come out of his trance, but his red-cast eyes and sharpened teeth remained, however. He seemed aware of it, purposefully avoiding Bobby's gaze.

"Dean, if you hadn't… if you weren't…"

"I know," he sighed.

"You'd be dead."

"I am dead, Bobby. It's fine."

"Fine my ass. Son, you've got a hole in your guts wide enough to stick a broom handle through and you lost the only blood you've had in almost a week."

John looked up from the tweezers. Sam, too, with the guilty-puppy look that came along with knowing your possession was responsible for the damage done. Dean took a moment to pop his shoulder back into place, and clear his throat.

"Not like it can kill me for good. Let's get out of here," he said. He picked the syringe off the floor, feeling his joints grind with every movement. The dead man's blood was still in his system, like a migraine and a fever all in one, making movement difficult, clouding his vision. If only his hands would stop shaking.


	7. Chapter 7

John was half-carrying Sam as they limped from the house. Bobby was hovering too close to Dean for comfort, something that he seemed aware of, but his paternal instincts were on edge. Vampire or not, Dean had been seriously injured and Sam was too out of it himself to take care of his older brother the way he usually would, and John? John did what he always did when Dean was hurt: He expected his eldest son to soldier on.

Bobby watched Dean carefully, noting his hand pressed against the wound in his belly, the stiff walk of someone whose joints are aching, the unfocused eyes that indicated an internal hard-fought battle to remain upright and moving forward.

"Dean, you need to let me help you," Bobby said quietly.

Dean shook his head, swallowed with a wince.

"That's… not a good idea right now," he rasped. The hand on his stomach pressed harder, for a moment, and his pace faltered briefly.

"Dean…"

Dean stood still, bracing his stomach, breath deepening. He closed his eyes and seemed to lose balance for a moment. Bobby rushed to his side, just in time to grab him as his knees buckled.

"Jesus!"

Sam and John stopped and looked back. John gently set Sam in the grass and knelt in front of his older son.

"Dean… Dean, look at me. Come on." John reached forward to place his hands on either side of his son's face, and Dean flinched to avoid the touch.

"Don't," he warned.

"Let us help, son."

Dean shook his head, gasping for breath, and then they heard his stomach growl. He went pale, groaned and clasped harder against his stomach.

"I'm f-fine. I just… I need a minute. It's hard to focus."

John went to grab the machete he'd set in the grass. Dean's eyes went wide.

"Dad? Please, don't do it here—" He was interrupted by the twisting of his insides, cutting him off with a hard, hoarse gasp. Both arms wrapped around his midsection, he struggled for breath through the pain.

John stopped mid-stride and looked at his eldest with a tinge of surprise.

"Son, I'm not going to hurt you. But I think you're going to have to eat before this gets any worse."

Dean coughed. He shook his head, almost faintly disappointed. "I'm fine."

"Dean—"

"No. Hunger isn't going to kill me- only a beheading can. We all know that. You taught me that, right? Vampires 101."

John paused and considered this. Last time they'd had this problem, the bite left on his arm was so bad he'd needed to stitch it up after leaving the room. It still wasn't healed. On the other hand, Dean had been starving himself for nearly a week before that incident. His more recent feeding may help him keep control this time, or at least it would if he hadn't bled out. Or maybe, just maybe, he could trust his son to keep it together long enough for John to get him back to Bobby's, where he had stashed a small amount of blood in the fridge for this kind of emergency.

"Can you make it back to Bobby's?"

Dean shuddered. Nodded.

"John, don't be an ass. He can't even stand. Give me the machete, he can take from me," Bobby huffed.

Dean coughed, put down a shaking hand and pushed himself to his feet, albeit with a nauseating sway. He was more or less upright, even if he was still in pain.

"I said no."

"Dean, you need to—"

"I swear to God, if you tell me I need to eat, I'll start with your throat, machete be damned. What I need is to get back to the damn salvage yard. Help me to the car."

For one unsettling moment, Bobby met Dean's eyes and Dean realized the old man was going to call his bluff. John must have come to the same conclusion, because he barked at them both to get moving and picked Sam back up from the grass.

Bobby took Dean's good arm and placed it over his shoulder, lacing their fingers together for leverage. Dean hissed as he was forced to straighten his back, the pressure on his stomach lessening. The bandages blossomed red and Bobby heard him swallow hard.

"You okay?"

Dean's tight, worried nod did little to alleviate his fears. He leaned hard on Bobby as they headed toward the car, stumbling occasionally and trying as best he could to keep pressure and stem the bleeding.

Bobby could literally feel the younger hunter's hand getting colder in his grasp. When they finally did make it to the impala, he set Dean as gently as possible in the back seat, where he doubled over with pain.

John was already in the driver's seat, and Sam was next to his brother, shaking his head slowly.

"I'm so sorry, Dean. I should've been able to fight it off, I shouldn't have come on the hunt, I wasn't thinking—"

"Not your fault, Sammy."

"But—"

Dean shook his head and coughed, noticing with disinterest the return of that strange black crud from his lungs speckling his hand afterward. He sighed and brushed his palm over the bloody thigh of his jeans.

"Not your fault," he repeated quietly. "Sorry about the salt."

Sam shrugged; wiped a streak of fresh blood from his cheek. Dean took a long, steady breath and swallowed nervously. He started to fidget, then settled for crossing his arms over his midsection, a vague expression of discomfort clouding his features.

"Roll down your window, Sammy."

Sam looked at his brother questioningly, then saw his own hands covered in blood and his eyes widened with realization. Dean's shoulders were trembling, and his eyes were carefully fixed on the blank back of the front seat. Sam rolled down his window.

It was worse than before, somehow. Dean found himself almost pitying the vampires they'd laced with dead man's blood in the past. Well, maybe not, but it was close, especially after losing so much blood. With no fresh feed to stave off the effects, a flu-like feeling had settled over him, from the pounding headache to the nauseous roll of his stomach. His body couldn't seem to fight it off. One moment he shivered, freezing, ready to hurl at every turn or bump in the road, the next moment he was sweating bullets, ravenous, clenching his eyes shut and muttering the string of latin declensions his father had taught him as a child in order to keep himself from losing it at the sight, smell, even sound of the blood around him. He bent over, shuddering, waiting for the intensity of the hunger to fade back into sickness. When it did, the cold returned and his insides gave a sharp lurch. _No, no, come on, keep it together, almost home, just a few more- Oh shit-_ He was going to be sick.

"P-Pull over…" he breathed, head swimming, palms sweating.

John thankfully asked no questions and quickly hit the shoulder of the highway.

Dean snapped open the door and stumbled to his knees in the gravel, dry-heaving into the dust. After several attempts by his body to expel any blood left, and finding none to vomit, the heaving was starting to bring up other, grosser things.

Whatever the black substance was that he had been coughing up lately… Long thin ropes of it, now, were trailing from his mouth, pooling in the dirt. Not nearly enough to count it as actually throwing up, but whatever it was, it wasn't good. He heard the car door open and shut, the crunch of gravel as his brother walked hesitantly closer.

"Jesus… It's the blood, isn't it… from the syringe. This is my fault. Dean, I-I had no idea, you have to believe me, if I had known—"

"Leave him alone, Sam," his father warned.

It took all of Dean's strength to move, sloppily wiping the tar-like streaks from his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He was exhausted, empty, aching, cold. For a moment, his vision blurred. Head swimming, he started to try to get to his feet and managed only to collapse, nearly falling face-first into his own black bile.

"Dean? Dean, can you hear me?"

Sam's voice, like a memory, shuttered through with other sounds, car door, gravel, clothes moving and the impala's engine, other senses too, now- He could smell car oil and leather and rust, and there… like the whisper of a perfect and restful promise, was the blood… Beneath and through it, pulses like firefly flickers, they were worried, and the smell of the blood was a candy coating over his tongue, teasing that cold, tight longing in his stomach, _come here, come here, warm and sweet and wet and filling… you're so tired, aren't you, Dean? Rest, just a moment, let it out… eat, Dean… Come here… come here… come here…_

And he wanted to. The pit of his stomach coaxed him forward, pain and need pushing thought and reason into submission, hunger drowning him in its tidal crash, _eat, Dean… let go, you're so hungry… just come here… come here… eat…_

Vaguely, he came back to himself with the dawning horror that his hands were fisted in his brother's shirt, and Sam's back was against the car, and Sam was speaking to him in the low, nervous voice he used on civilians who were caught between shock and horror.

"It's okay, Dean, it's okay, it's okay… Just do it, it's okay… I get it…"

Just… just do what? He breathed in and again the smell of blood ran like honey over jangled nerves, stoking the fire in his guts and pulling him in, mouth open to the vein and teeth just tapping the skin-

 _Come here… come here…_ Come here- "Dean, come here! Now!"

Strong hands on the back of his neck, tearing at his shoulders, dragging him away from his brother… Dad… Jesus, what had he…? What was he going to do? Sam? He was forcefully shoved down into the dirt, the sharpness of the rocks skinning his hands, cheek cut open from the impact.

"S-Sam…?" Dean was shaking, eyes wide, and suddenly the gravity of what he'd almost done hit him with the force of a rifle.

"Get the chains, Bobby, we can't take him back like this, he'll kill us."

"Chains? I don't…" _I don't understand._ Had he really threatened his brother? God, what was happening to him? Dean backed away further, felt a tree behind him and slid down, only to feel a sudden searing pain in his stomach, vision dim again and the pulse of his family audible through the night. He shook his head in panic to dispel the noise, but the pain continued.

"Stop," he croaked, "Stop, please…"

His father, misunderstanding his meaning, spat, "We did stop you, otherwise your own brother would be dead. Put the chains on him, Bobby, he's no use like this. We'll cuff him until we figure out what to do."

"Are you out of your damn mind? John, that's your son. Christ, he's bled out and sick from the poison you all shot him up with. Of course he ain't acting right. He needs blood is all, and you'd rather sit here talking about it instead of actually solving the problem!"

John continued to bicker with Bobby, but the voices were lost in the haze. Hungry. Dean was painfully, achingly hungry. Starving. Ravenous. The three men in front of him lost meaning, coalesced into the vibrant, tempting prey that could solve that most pressing of needs, most basic of problems. Dean was starving, and he needed to eat. A sound like a rockslide, and the three men turned to stare at him. There it was again, and did he… was that…?

"Dean…" Sam swallowed, edged away.

Not prey. Not prey, they aren't prey, they're family… Dean's breathing quickened and he doubled over on his knees, trying to push back the pangs of hunger and think clearly. It was then that he realized the sound was coming from himself. Between the gasping breaths, he had been _growling._

 _I'm not a monster._

 _Yes, you are. Yes you are, Dean. You're a monster, whether you like it or not. And you have to eat._

Tick, tick, tick. Time's running out, Dean, and what are you going to do? … _there._

 _Soft, rustling in the dead leaves behind him… there, again._

The only option. The only answer that made sense. He couldn't find his voice anymore, the need was too intense. He gave his brother a look that hoped he understood, and ran headlong into the forest behind him, racing to find the source of the sound. It was a doe. Her life was taken as painlessly as he could, but in this state, that was not saying much.


	8. Chapter 8

When they finally tracked him down, it was John who found him first, following the trail of broken branches and trampled leaves until he located the corpse of the deer, and then heard the panicked breath of his son from a few yards off. Dean didn't need to breathe, of course, but it seemed to be a habit that not many vampires had broken in his experience. In that regard, his son really was no different than any of the other bloodsuckers he'd taken out over the years.

He walked up to his eldest, who was trembling and totally unaware of his father's approach. Shock had set in, it seemed.

"Dean."

Unresponsive. There was, John noted with mild disgust, a faint tinge of red around his son's mouth that remained after he'd fed. He took out his canteen of holy water and pulled the bandanna from his coat pocket. He doused the bandanna with the water. Might sting some, but that might actually be a good thing if it helped the younger man out of his catatonia.

"Here," he said, tossing the wet cloth, "Clean yourself up. You look like a goddamned animal."

Dean swallowed and shakily wiped the blood from his face. If he noticed the hiss and steam from his burning skin, he did not show it.

"You done?" John asked. It was a loaded question.

Dean nodded and got to his feet. With some of his strength restored, the act was less tentative than before, though his breath was still uneven. He passed the bandanna back to his father, who then looked pointedly at his son's hands.

Following his father's gaze, Dean realized his hands were still bloody. He self-consciously scrubbed at the skin until the burns started turning raw. John cleared his throat, and Dean stopped scrubbing, folded the cloth neatly, and presented it again to his father. John pocketed it.

"Look me in the eye," he said. Dean struggled to keep his expression from exposing the naked fear he felt at that tone of voice. He met his father's gaze with no small amount of wariness.

"You ever get that close to losing it again, and I will kill you. You threaten Sam again, and I will kill you. You understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

"You ever let it get that bad again, you're no different than what we hunt. And you know what I do to the things we hunt, don't you?"

Dean was choked by shame, unable to respond. _Monster. Vampire._

" _Speak up_."

"Yes sir, I do," he whispered.

"So here's what's going to happen next. We're going to do two things. First, you're going to put on cuffs so I know you're not a liability. Second? We're going to douse you with another syringe."

Dean felt his heart leap into his throat.

"Please- _please_ \- Sir, the chains. Just not the blood, I can't—" he shuddered, "—I can't handle another dose. Please," he swallowed, " _Dad, please._ "

"Take a look at that deer you killed."

 _Please, don't. Please._

"Look at it, Dean. Now."

He turned, saw the throat of the animal wide-torn, jugular, esophagus, muscle and sinew stripped open and exposed to the night air like some rabid predator had killed it. The eyes were bulged and glassy, unaware of the flies landing on and around them. _Monster._

"Dean, when your mother died I promised nothing like that would ever happen to my family again. I'm sorry I couldn't save you, son, but if you threaten Sam or Bobby, if I even think for a moment they might wind up like that deer, I'll take your goddamn head. You understand me, boy?"

"Yes sir," he whispered.

"Put these on," John said, and the clink of metal cuffs landed near his feet. "Arms behind, not in front."

Dean didn't need the reminder; he knew how they cuffed on hunts. He slid the metal over his wrists, tightened each band while his father checked for slack and tested the strength of the chain.

When he was satisfied, John pulled out the syringe. Dean swallowed, and couldn't help his step backward. Fear trapped his breath in his chest.

"Dad, please," he begged, "not the blood. I'm in my right mind, I swear. I won't hurt anyone. I can't think straight when I'm dosed. I won't even speak, won't even move. Just don't inject me, please. Please."

"Spare him, for Christ's sake. Look at him, John. Don't you think he's been through enough?" Bobby's tired voice rang through the clearing. Sam arrived a moment later, saw the deer, and looked almost relieved.

"Let him go, Winchester, he'll be alright now."

Dean didn't dare speak on his own behalf. His father narrowed his eyes at his friend, but sighed.

"Fine," he said, and turned toward his eldest. "You heard me, boy. One wrong move, you're shooting up. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

It was Sam who pulled Dean to his feet, mindful of not twisting his cuffed arms. Dean's pace was steadier now that he'd fed, but Sam wasn't so sure he'd make it back to Bobby's without throwing it all up again. His skin was still clammy from the dead man's blood, but at least he noticed Dean's eyes and teeth had returned to their human state.

John took up his place behind Bobby and his sons as they walked back to the impala. Dean seemed back in control, if a little sick. They'd have to find a cure, and soon, though. It was becoming obvious that the situation was beginning to spiral out of control.


	9. Chapter 9

Somewhere along the last stretch of the drive, Dean lost consciousness. Sam helped Bobby carry him inside and put him upstairs in a spare room before calling a family meeting. John grabbed a sixer from the fridge and placed it in the middle of the table, then sat down near his youngest son. Bobby returned a moment later with a heavy stack of books which he thumped down next to the beer.

Sam scanned the titles as his father cracked open a bottle.

"Vampyre: Mythe and lore; The Undead; Compendium of Blood Magick and Rites, a slew of hunter diaries… Bobby, if there were a cure—I mean, I don't want to give up hope, but don't you think we'd know about it? How many hundreds of hunters must have been bitten in this line of work? If there were a cure, wouldn't they use it?"

Bobby scowled.

"I'm not sayin' you're wrong, Sam, but it doesn't mean we shouldn't be looking. Besides, it ain't just a cure we should be tracking down. Dean's a friggin' mess if you all hadn't noticed. He's unwilling to feed and keepin' him sick and strung out on dead man's blood ain't exactly an optimal solution for anyone. That shit might not kill him, but it's cutting it close, don't you think? We have to find some way to help him or he's either gonna lose it, or more likely starve before we get around to fixin' him. You ever seen a vampire after it's been starved, John? Your boy is gonna whittle down to the bones and go stark ravin' any day now, and from everything I've read, it's rare to come back from somethin' like that. You can already count his ribs. We gotta find something quick or he ain't gonna make it."

John scowled.

"Bobby, whether or not he feeds is Dean's decision. The consequences are his, too. All I know is, anorexic or not, we've got a vampire on our hands. Learning what makes 'em tick won't help. I hate to say it," he said quietly, "but… maybe-" He took a deep breath, scrubbed a weary hand down his face and bowed his head, "Maybe we gotta stop thinking of him as Dean if we want to resolve this. The reality is that you were almost killed back there, Sam. That's the reality. Dean's fault or not, he got turned. It happens in this line of work. At the end of the day, though, Sammy, our job is to keep innocent people safe, plain and simple. Even from…"

Sam shoved his chair back, stood angrily and chucked one of the books in front of his father.

"Even from Dean, is that it? Read the fucking book, _sir_. Dean always defended us. He died, got turned, defending us. Defending me. Time we returned the favor. Or did you forget that part of our job is defending _Dean,_ one of your so-called 'innocent people' and your _son_ no less, even from himself? And that we've failed him?"

With that, the youngest Winchester stormed out of the room.

John sighed and collapsed back into his chair.

Dean was cold to the touch and completely still. His body was laid on the bed, head gently resting to one side. Sam watched for any sign that he would wake, but it seemed as though hours went by without the slightest stirring. His hand was in Dean's, which slowly started to absorb his body heat and reflect it back to him, but that was all.

Eventually, a knock came at the door.

Sam briefly considered denying them entry, thinking maybe it was his father come to continue their fight, but he thought better of it. His Dad wouldn't bother to climb the stairs it took to see them, not after that argument.

"Come in," he said. Bobby entered, approached the bed, and stood behind Sam.

"He won't wake up," Sam said quietly, hating the plaintive note of worry that crept into his otherwise matter-of-fact tone.

Bobby heaved a sigh, pulled over a chair.

"Listen, Sam," he began, "Dean's in rough shape. The research I've been lookin' at down there? It's pretty bleak. Worse than we thought."

Sam felt his mouth go dry.

"What do you mean?"

Removing his dirty trucker cap, Bobby squeezed the brim of it between his hands in his usual nervous tick. Bad news, is what this meant. Sam steeled himself for it.

"Dean's only a week into the change. He needs blood, Sam, and a lot of it. The fact that he's refusing to eat is a bad sign. He could lose control, or worse: He might up and die on us. Now, your Dad is as likely to help Dean feed as a werewolf is likely to give up hearts for lent, but you and I, we watch out for family. And Dean is family."

Sam nodded, his throat constricting, but a thought occurred to him.

"I thought… I thought starvation couldn't kill a vampire. Don't you have to cut off their head? That's what we've always assumed, right?"

"Well, we thought wrong, at least as far as young 'uns are concerned. You get turned, you're pretty vulnerable for at least a year. Once you've got enough human blood in your system, then you can count yourself immortal except for a beheading, but until then? Yeah, Sam, they can starve, and Dean's starving. And from what I read down there? It ain't a pretty way to go, son."

After a moment of tense consideration, Sam clenched his fingers around Dean's hand.

"What do we do?"

Bobby put his baseball cap back on his head and pulled an IV bag of O Positive blood from his flannel.

"I have a bit on hand because I'm tired of sticking myself every time I gotta do a blood sigil. From what I've heard, it helps if it's warm, so I kept two of these here in my shirt pocket. Should be about body temperature by now."

Bobby stood and approached the bed, carefully placing a hand beneath Dean's jaw and one behind his head. Gently he tilted the head back, elongating the throat, and he pulled back Dean's lips to check his teeth.

"Fangs are in place, so we can use 'em to tear open the bag," he observed.

"Bobby…" Sam hesitated, "What if he wakes up?"

"He might," the older hunter answered truthfully. "And one of three things will happen. One, he'll be fine and thank us for our hospitality and start eating again like a normal goddamn person… er, vampire. Whatever. But I think we both know about how likely that is. Two, he's gonna panic when he tastes blood and try to spit it out or get away, and that's a bit more Dean's usual M.O. If he tries that shit, you gotta hold him down until I can force him to eat, alright?" -Sam nodded- "Or three, and this is what I'm scared of, kid…"

Bobby took a deep breath before continuing.

"Three, he might start jonesing. Hard. Dean hasn't let himself eat much of anything so far, and this is pure human blood. If he loses it, it could be dangerous. He won't be able to stop himself. And not just right now. This is gonna make it really difficult for Dean to control the hunger around humans. Up til now, he's had animal blood-"

"No," Sam cut in, "He bit… He bit Dad."

"You think two mouthfuls is gonna count? You ever try cocaine, kid?"

Sam shook his head.

"Once or twice, and you feel good and happy and maybe think you can handle it. But the next time, you start wondering when you can do it again. Pretty soon you're gonna _need_ that hit. Crave it like your life depends on it."

Sam swallowed uncomfortably.

"It's worse for vamps," Bobby said quietly, not without pity. He looked at Dean's still form and almost felt sorry for what they were about to do.

"Every time they drink human blood, it cracks that resistance. Makes the hunger a little harder to stop. It's why so many of them end up on the wrong end of a hunter's blade- they get sloppy. It's hard to stay on top of an addiction like that and not get caught. You aren't thinking about leavin' a trail, you're just worried when you can get your next fix."

Glancing at his brother, Sam felt a well of grief rising in his throat.

"Dean's gonna hate us for this," he said.

Bobby looked like he was close to tears and too tired to shed any of them.

"He might," he replied, "but only if he lives through it. Animal blood ain't gonna be enough to keep him alive through the change. Maybe we can switch him over later, but right now? He needs the high-test stuff, and fast. You ready?"

Sam nodded, got on the bed, settled his weight on his brother's body and firmly held both arms pinned beneath his knees and hands.

"Okay," he said. "Ready."


	10. Chapter 10

Dean's head was already tilted back, and Bobby used the tip of a fang to nick open the packet of blood. He began to pour, and at first it pooled in Dean's mouth and began to trickle down the side of his jaw.

"Dammit, kid, swallow…" he said gruffly, and began to knead Dean's throat with one hand, coaxing the blood into his body.

The first pack was nearly dry by the time Dean moaned. Sam jumped at the sound.

Bobby stopped rubbing Dean's throat and put his hand against his face, trying to feel for a temperature difference.

"Come on, kid," he whispered. "Come on, you got this…"

He tilted the last of the packet's blood into Dean's mouth and watched as he swallowed of his own volition. Bobby's relief was short-lived when Dean's eyes snapped open in a panic.

"Hold him!" Bobby commanded, and Sam pressed hard, but Dean was writhing to get away.

"Dean! Goddammit, listen to me!"

Fear. Dean was terrified. He was scrambling, trying to free himself, but in his starved state, it didn't matter that he was a vampire- Sam still had the upper hand.

Bobby grabbed Dean's jaw with one hand, his heart breaking at the look of confusion and terror in his eyes. "I'm so sorry, son. We gotta do this."

Dean saw the blood, and his eyes went wide. He started to struggle with renewed panic, trying to scream for help through his muffled mouth, but Bobby ripped open the bag with his mouth and his thumbnail, and forced the torn plastic between Dean's teeth. Blood splattered over Dean's face and Bobby's hands, but Bobby pinched Dean's nose shut. Vampires don't need to breathe, but some reflexes never change, and Dean started to swallow, chokingly, to keep from suffocating.

"That's it," Bobby coaxed, "Keep going."

Tear started to leak from Dean's eyes. He jerked again, still trying to free himself, but it was no use. He swallowed, and Bobby finally released his hold on his jaw when the packet was dry.

As soon as he was released, Dean retched over the side of the bed. For a moment, both Sam and Bobby thought the entire horrific ordeal would be for nothing, but it seemed Dean's body was too desperate for food to risk losing it all to a guilt-induced nausea.

When he was done retching, Dean pulled himself back on the bed, shivering, panting with the exertion of his fight.

"Get out," he growled.

"Dean-" Sam started.

" _Get the fuck out._ "

It was deadly silent in the room. Dean drew himself into the corner, knees against his chest. He was still shaking.

"You ain't allowed to die," Bobby spat, standing his ground. "Not on my watch, you ungrateful idjit. You gonna make your brother sit through you starvin' yourself to death after he already watched you die? You're as stupid and heartless as you are hungry."

Sam almost stopped Bobby before realizing it was a front. A bluff. Dean, at his worst times, only responded to his father's tough love and strict orders. A gentle hand would get bitten off, but Bobby's anger and aggression would push Dean back into submission. Worse, Dean wasn't arguing about whether it was possible for him to starve to death anymore. He knew. He had known since the beginning that it might kill him. He just didn't care. Sam felt anger rising in his chest.

"I… I'm sorry," Dean quaked. "I'm sorry."

Bobby's resolve shattered, but as he lifted a hand, Dean flinched back violently.

"Please," he groaned, "Don't make me eat again. I swear I'll do whatever you want. Don't…" he shuddered, "Don't force me. Not like they did. Please, Bobby."

They?

Sam's insides liquefied, and he realized Dean was talking about Kate and the nest. The blood they'd forced into him, laughing, watching him shudder and scream as the change rooted itself in his body.

"I'm sorry, Dean," his brother said. "We had to. You were dying and we didn't know what else to do."

"You could have let me go."

The response was soft, low, rasping from a sore throat, and almost regretful.

"No, I couldn't have." Sam dared his brother to respond.

Bobby huffed a sigh.

"You're gonna need more than what we gave you, Dean. Soon. Or you'll slip back into that coma or lose control and whether or not we force you is gonna become a moot point."

Dean's gaze was pleading, traveling between his brother and his adopted uncle, searching for any give at all. He found none.

"I'm storing it downstairs. You give me about four minutes to nuke the next batch, and I'll let you drink it of your own free will. You wait any longer," and here Bobby paused to draw in a breath, "And so help me, I'll make your father hold you down while I put a tube down your throat. We'll pour a full five and a half quarts into you before we take it out to be damn sure you survive. You try me and see if I won't."

Dean paled and looked like he was about to retch again.

Bobby grabbed a stunned and sickened Sam by the arm, left the room, and slammed the door behind him. Sam swore he heard gagging.


	11. Chapter 11

A few minutes later, Dean had composed himself and shakily descended the stairs. True to his word, Bobby finished pouring the bag of heated blood into a glass.

Dean was unable to look at John. Sam guessed it had something to do with Bobby's rather vivid description upstairs. Dean still looked a little off, but he took the glass with a trembling hand and lifted it to take a drink.

About a quarter of the way through, something changed. There was a tinge of desperation and an eerie feeling, watching Dean as he drank the blood. He chugged it back like a beer, but when he lowered the glass to the counter, he hand drifted to his stomach and he winced.

Bobby watched him carefully.

"You need more?"

Dean dropped his hand to the counter as if he'd been burned.

"No," he said, too quickly.

"Don't you lie to me," Bobby warned.

"I'm fine. It's enough, okay?"

Bobby checked the clock on the stove.

"Two hours, then you're back here for the next pint. You come late, you know what to expect."

Dean swallowed hard, but managed to glower at him.

"Am I officially on parole now? You gonna put a tracker on me so I don't escape?"

Bobby shrugged. "That's up to you. However you want to play this out, Dean. But not eating is gonna get somebody killed. You don't want to be a vampire? Tough. Hate to break it to you, kid, but until we get a cure, you're stuck with V8 for the foreseeable future, and you better get a handle on your appetite. Not eating is gonna make it harder, not easier, to feed." Bobby's expression gentled ever so slightly. "And it won't matter how you feel about it, Dean. You don't eat? It's gonna build up inside until you hurt someone. Might be someone you care about."

Dean opened his mouth to protest, but Bobby beat him to the chase.

"Or someone _we_ care about. You can't starve to death, Dean. You might be stubborn enough, I'll give you that, but we can't afford to lose you."

Dean sighed in defeat.

Bobby put the empty glass in the sink, then swatted Dean out of the way.

"Go on, get. I think your brother bought me a DVD player, or whatever they're called. I'm guessing he's got it set up. Should kill the next two hours pretty quick."


	12. Chapter 12

He wandered into the living room and sat on the couch, absently rubbing the sore muscles of his belly. The hunger was quieter, at least; almost subdued.

As Bobby had mentioned, Sam was just finishing with the setup for the DVD player. John was watching carefully from the kitchen table, but continued searching the books.

They were about halfway through Gone in 60 Seconds when the brothers heard a low voice from the other room:

"You boys feel like lending a hand, or are we putting Dean's fangs aside to watch movies now?"

Sam watched his brother freeze and go pale, stared in disbelief as Dean stood up shakily and went to the table, grabbed a book, sat down and started reading without saying a word.

With a deep breath, Sam slowly set down the remote and turned to face his father.

"Would it kill you to let him have a break?"

John finally looked up from his reading.

"I don't know, Sammy. It almost killed you, didn't it?"

"What did you say?"

Sam stood up and squared his shoulders and John put down the book.

"Both of you heard me. How about you take a damn seat and we start figuring out what to do about it?"

Silence.

Then, Sam stalked forward and the men at the table could feel the storm coming like the oncoming rattle of a freight train.

Dean looked sick, but he knew he had to stop this before it got worse. He swallowed heavily, then started to get up.

"Sit down, Dean. You too, Sammy." Bobby leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, arms folded over his chest.

Although he didn't sit, the youngest Winchester stopped to stand angrily at the threshold of the dining room. Bobby, satisfied that the worst of the fight had been averted, cleared his throat.

"John," he said, "I'm gonna need to talk to you outside."

Their father gave a warning glance, but Bobby didn't flinch. John sighed, then turned to his eldest.

"Sit. Read. Don't you move a damn inch until I'm back, you hear me? Sam, you keep an eye on him. If he starts to look peaky, make him drink, but don't get close. Understand?"

Dean looked like he wanted to dissolve. His head was bowed, but there was the tell-tale tic in his jaw that meant he was clenching his teeth.

Sam sneered defiantly.

"Get out," he spat. "Just get the hell out. Go pow-wow over your next bad decision. Make Dean work another hunt without eating? Sure. Let him get injured to prove a point? No problem-"

"Sam," John warned.

"Punish him for getting turned on the hunt where **you** made him play bait? Let's blame him for it and watch while he starves himself to please you, is that it?"

John stood and cocked his fist before Dean grabbed his arm. Hard.

"Stop," he begged. "Stop it!"

Sam tossed his hands up in frustration.

"How can you defend him, Dean? He did this to you!"

"Goddammit, Sam!" Bobby huffed and put himself between the two hunters, "That's enough out of both of you! John, you're coming with-"

Dean's stomach growled.

He immediately released his father and backed against the wall, hands out, placating.

The men stared at him, and he tried to reassure them.

"I'm okay," he said, "I'm fine."

"Go drink something. Now."

"Bobby, I-"

" _Now,_ Dean. I'm going to talk to John. By the time I get back in here, you had better be done. Sam, you watch him and make sure he doesn't just pour it down the sink or some other damn thing. Jesus, it's like babysitting you three…"

And with that, Bobby dragged the eldest Winchester out of the house, leaving the two brothers staring at each other.

Dean had his arms folded self-consciously.

"I really am fine, Sam. I swear. I just ate thirty minutes ago. You saw it."

Sam sighed.

"I know. But you're starving. Literally. And I can't-" his voice caught- "I can't watch you die again, Dean. I don't think I've got it in me."

"Sam, please. Don't make me do this. I'm not gonna eat again."

There was a metallic click. The younger Winchester raised the gun he'd unclipped from his side holster.

Dean's eyes widened in disbelief.

"You're… threatening me? What, if I don't eat I'm gonna get shot? How is that a solution?"

Sam flicked the safety off and aimed.

"I figure," he said almost conversationally, "that if you refuse and I shoot you, either you'll start to bleed and attack me, or you'll start to bleed and pass out."

Dean raised an eyebrow, but grudgingly lifted his hands in surrender. He took a step toward the kitchen.

"Solid plan, Sammy. I can really see those college credits at work. You wanna explain how either of those options help you out?"

Sam shrugged, but kept the gun on target at his brother's chest.

"The way I see it, Bobby and Dad will come rushing in here. And you know what Bobby said he'd do. Three of us against one of you. You're too hungry to be well-coordinated. If you don't pass out, we'd get you down easily enough. And even if you do… well, Bobby wasn't bluffing. He's got a spare fuel line hose under the sink- Put it there just in case this happened."

Dean kept his hands raised, but closed his eyes and tried to keep his breathing steady. Fear was leaving tracks of sweat down his back. He could feel his body shaking and he struggled to control the urge to panic. His stomach contracted painfully, and he hoped his flinch would go unnoticed.

His brother must have seen it, because he raised his head and opened both eyes. The gun lowered ever so slightly.

"Why are you doing this, Dean?" he asked quietly. "Why the hell won't you eat? What's going on with you?"

Dean shook his head slowly.

"You don't know, Sam. You don't understand."

"Help me, then."

His brother met his eyes, then looked away. He lowered his hands and recrossed his arms over his abdomen.

"I'm something we hunt," he mumbled. "I'm… I'm a freak. A monster. And every time you ask me to drink, you're asking me to walk further down that road, Sammy. Away from you. From Dad," he gave a humorless chuckle, "and he already wants me dead."

Sam shook his head, "No. That's not true."

"It is. You know it is. What good am I, huh? You think other hunters aren't gonna start targeting us because of me? You think Dad's gonna be able to toss back a cold one with the old gang once they hear his son's a goddamn fang? He knows, Sam. And what's worse, he knows I'm a danger to _you._ And so do I."

The youngest Winchester dropped his gun hand to his side, then holstered the weapon.

"You aren't-"

"Let me stop you right there, Sammy."

In the time it took him to inhale, Sam felt a displacement of air before he was spun around and the breath was knocked from his lungs. Terror clambered through his muscles and ratcheted his spine, clenched his fists and widened his eyes. His brother had him shoved against the wall with one hand over his mouth and the other tightened around both wrists, pinned against his back. Sweat broke over Sam's forehead and he realized… he was helpless. His struggling was fruitless. He felt Dean's cold, dry breath on the back of his neck. Then there was a rumble of words, and he could feel his brother's chest vibrate with the bass of his lowered voice.

"You still believe I'm not dangerous? I might be weakened, Sam, but not as much as you might think. Starving hasn't done me any favors, you're right, but I had blood not an hour ago and I can already pin you. You think I should keep going? Still want me to have another glass? You have no idea how hungry I am. How much it hurts just to stand up when my stomach is tied in knots. Fuck," he nearly sobbed, "I want it so badly I can't think straight. But I refuse to eat, Sam, because not only is it not _right,_ but it makes it that much harder not to give in. What'll happen when I can't control it anymore? Who's gonna take me out? You? You wouldn't do it even when I begged you. And Dad… he knows you'd hate him for it. Bobby is too sentimental. So what should I do, Sammy? Hmm? Put my family at risk from everyone, including myself? Prolong my own death for another few years until my family dies and I'm left alone?"

His voice broke on the last word. Dean moved his hand from Sam's mouth to his shoulder, and pressed his face to the back of his neck as he cried.

"Dean… I'm sorry… I'm sorry this happened to you, but it isn't your fault. You can't punish yourself for something you have no control over."

"This is the only control I have, Sammy."

Sam felt his brother's hands tighten on him, heard the hissed intake of breath and the pained gasp. Dean tried not to groan as his stomach contracted, protesting its emptiness in proximity to prey. Sam's pulse began to filter through his senses, and Dean stumbled back, one arm out to keep his brother at bay while he tried to ride out the hunger pang.

"S-stay there," he rasped.

Sam kept to the wall, but turned around to watch. His brother was struggling to stay conscious, and he leaned heavily into the doorjamb, cradling his midsection and waiting for the cramp to release.

It tightened on him for a moment, and Dean went pale and folded over, gripping himself with both arms.

"I c-can't… God, _please_ … stop..." he hitched his breath, "... _s-stop_..."

Sam darted into the kitchen, and his brother tried to fight his body back into submission.

The shaking worsened, and Dean felt a chill spreading from his midsection. The pain was leeching into the rest of his body now, but his stomach was still the epicenter. He wondered, somehow, if it was possible for a body to collapse in on itself…

Strangely, there was a warmth, tugging at his right hand, and then a voice.

"...ean, okay? Stay with me, come on…"

It was hard to focus past the _need_. God, he wanted to eat. He wanted to eat so fucking badly, he couldn't-

"...here. Dean, _here_. Eat, goddammit. Please. God, Dean, _please._ Don't die on me. Don't do it, not again…"

Vaguely, he felt his body give out. Knees hit tile and his left hand splayed to keep him from dropping altogether, but then his stomach kicked. Vision graying, he collapsed onto his side and felt his muscles spasming as he tried to smother the searing ache in his belly. He pulled his legs to his chest with a moan. Could this kill him? Was he going to die? His eyes watered with agony, and he tried to remember how to breathe. Something pulled at his shoulder, twisting his torso, and before he could scream he was muffled by something covering his mouth. He blacked out.


	13. Chapter 13

He woke momentarily in a different position but couldn't get his bearings. His joints ached as he lay on the cold, inflexible floor, but more than that, he was still hungry, still _so fucking hungry_. He wanted to curl around the pain, wrap it with his body and shudder through it until it stopped, but something was holding him down even as he struggled. _God, no more, I can't do this, I can't do this, it hurts-_

There was something cool and liquid lapping at his mouth and spilling down his cheek as he fought the tremors.

"Dean, _please._ "

He felt pressure on his jaw until he thought it would crack, and he opened his mouth to relieve it when the liquid poured in and he swallowed, and just like that… the pit in his stomach was coated with gold and warmth. He could feel the sting of his abused muscles slowly releasing their painful clench. Eyes rolled back in their sockets. Tired bones went still. Cold, shaking flesh warmed itself on the honey at his lips. The roar of his appetite dimmed, deafened, and finally fell silent under the gentle rocking of his parched throat as he swallowed. Numbly aware, he felt a hand pushing his hair back from the sweat on his face.

The flow of ambrosia slowed, then stopped. After a moment, the ache returned as his body protested the sudden abstinence. He groaned, opened his sensitive eyes to slits in the harsh daylight of the kitchen. He tried to raise a hand to block the glare from the window, and felt it sting his exposed skin.

As he came to, he discovered he was on the floor of the kitchen, on his back. His shoulders, neck and head were being cradled in something softer, raised- His brother's lap, he realized. The sunlight was beginning to hurt, distracting him from his thoughts. He hid his face in the crook of his elbow and tried to shift onto his side, but his body resisted the motion as every limb protested with a throbbing pain. He moaned.

"Oh, shit- Dean, hold on, I forgot. I'm sorry, I didn't realize…"

He was gently lowered to the floor and there was a scuffle before the room darkened and his eyes adjusted to the artificial light of the lamp. Even that was bright, but at least it was tolerable. Skin around his mouth began to tighten, and as he ran the back of his hand against his lips, it came away red with a few black flakes. Blood.

Dean struggled to keep his hand from shaking. He felt strangely light-headed.

His brother: "More?"

The voice behind him was quiet, but not unkind.

"S-Sammy?"

He wanted to get up, but he was having trouble moving.

A hand pressed him back down to the floor. Gentle, but firm.

"Answer me, Dean. Do you need more?"

 _Yes, God, yes please more, I want more, I want_ _ **more**_ _-_

 _Stop! Control it. Control, Dean…_

His stomach did an uneasy flip, but he made no move to ease it.

"Dean?"

"M'okay," he whispered, but his tongue hit the corner of his mouth and he caught the sweetness there. _Control. Control._

"Can you stand?"

He thought for a moment. Nodded.

"We're gonna aim for the table. I have to heat you up another glass. Can you make yourself wait?"

Can he… what?

"I said I'm okay, Sam."

There was a pause, but a hand was placed tentatively over his belly, and he felt his muscles shuddering under the palm. His shirt had ridden up, he realized. He tried to tug it back down, but his brother's hand was in the way, resting over the tender area. Sam pressed lightly into the soreness and tried to rub away some of the tension, but Dean could feel another pang seize his stomach. He bit his lip to keep from groaning aloud.

"Your stomach is cramping, Dean. I can… I can _see_ it. I can see what's happening to you."

Dean pushed himself into a sitting position, away from his brother's hand. He tugged his shirt down and focused on evening out his breathing. To his irritation, he felt his cheeks heating with shame.

"That's not gonna stop, Sam. No matter how much I eat."

Meeting his brother's eyes, Dean watched as realization and then concern flashed over his brother's features.

"You mean… you…"

"Yeah. Pretty much since I was turned."

"Jesus, Dean. And you thought that was _normal?_ "

Unable to watch as the concern turned to pity, Dean tried to leverage himself onto his feet using the counter to hoist himself up. It mostly worked, but his legs threatened to give out. Thankfully, Sam grabbed his shoulder. Together, they steered Dean the remaining few feet to the dining room, where he was able to sink into a chair. He rested his head in his arms on the table and tried to ignore the hungry gnaw in his gut.

"I can't make it stop," he said quietly. "It doesn't stop. I don't know what to do. I can't eat, or I'll start craving. I can't starve, or I could hurt you."

His laugh was short, bitter.

"I fucked up, Sammy. I can't fight my way out of this. I'm trying, but… God, it hurts," he gasped, and clutched his stomach.

"Dean," Sam ventured, "You haven't exactly _tried_ eating. Not really. We aren't asking you to feed on livestock or a living person, here. You've fed enough to keep you moving and barely sane, but don't tell me you've tried eating when you've only fed when forced to since you turned. The stomachache won't go away because you won't allow yourself to sate it, you idiot."

"Yeah, insult the starving v-"

He stopped. He still hadn't said it aloud yet, and his flippant tone until the last moment where he actually had to admit it fell flat as he choked on the word.

"Say it, Dean."

"You know what I am."

"Yeah, and so do you. But you need to say it. Admit the reality. This is what's happening, Dean. You're a vampire."

"Sam-"

"Say it."

Dean turned his head to glare at his brother.

"Leave it. You seeing this, that's bad enough. Just let it go, okay? Please."

While the elder Winchester buried his head back in his arm and tried to brace his cramping stomach, Sam went rummaging around for a clean glass. When he finally found one, he filled it with hot water, then stirred in a bit of salt. He set it on the table beside his brother.

"Here," he said, and nudged it forward. The steam coming off the top of the glass was already dissipating.

Dean picked up his head and looked blearily between the glass, Sam, and the glass again. What was this?

"You didn't want to eat anything else, so I figured… I don't know. Maybe this will trick your stomach into calming down for a bit. The heat might help the cramping a little. That's why…" he hesitated, "That's why you were drinking the coffee, wasn't it? Because the heat and the caffeine eased the stomachache."

Dean swallowed. Nodded.

He gingerly picked up the glass and took a long drink.

Sam watched him with a carefully schooled expression. No pity, just concern.

When the last of it was gone, Dean was finally able to rest his hands in his lap. Some of the stress had left his shoulders. He looked… tired. Drawn. But a little less fragile.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"Want a refill?"

Dean hesitated, then nodded.

"I'll get it. Go back to the couch. Turn the movie back on. When was the last time you slept? Like, actually slept? Passing out doesn't count."

Too long ago. It seemed like every time he closed his eyes, he would slip into a nightmare. At first it was hell, or watching his mother burn. Then, it got closer to the bone. Getting turned, the sutures on his father's arm, watching the black bile spatter across his hands at every cough… or worse, the hunger would hit hard while he slept and the dream would turn to blood…following Sam, hunting with him, killing the monster only to start craving as the victim they saved spilled precious red manna on the floor until he couldn't stop himself, lapping it up desperately, horrified as his brother saw him break under the weight of the bloodlust…

"Dean?"

"A while," he said.

Another warm glass was put by his hand, along with two pills.

At his questioning look, Sam explained:

"Tranquilisers. Not sure if they'll work, but it's worth a shot. You won't dream if they do," he added, putting a hand on Dean's shoulder.

The pills were washed down with the warm salt water, and Dean was relieved to feel the knots in his belly ease to the point where he could get up of his own volition.

Sam stopped him, looked in his face with a resigned understanding, then pulled him into an embrace.

Dean felt a sudden tightness in his throat, and a sense of helplessness washed over him. This felt too big, something stronger and older than what they could fix or fight, and he was wading through the despair like a soldier with no final orders, only moving on because he knew he should… some sense of duty kept him tied to life when he knew he shouldn't keep living.

But Sam. Sam felt like home, and the despair was pushed back behind the trust that they wouldn't give up. Couldn't. He had to fight, at least for Sammy's sake. He knew if the roles were reversed, he would never hurt his brother, or allow him to lose faith. _It goes both ways, you know,_ Sam said once. _You can't just keep saving me and expecting me to ditch you Dean. Why not? Well, for starters it's just stupid… Bitch… Jerk…_

Dean finally let go and squeezed Sam's shoulder for good measure, then walked to the couch and laid down. Sleep poured in like a fog, and he slipped under.


End file.
